


Basically Dead Already

by SALJStella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sexual Content, UST, Unrequited Love, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:47:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SALJStella/pseuds/SALJStella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's body doesn't know the difference. It just knows that John is warmth, and he's so cold. A sequel to the amazing Master and Hound by joolabee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Basically Dead Already

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2bee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2bee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Master and Hound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/681158) by [2bee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2bee/pseuds/2bee). 



> I read joolabee's amazing Master and Hound, and as blown away as I was, I was horrified that the boys didn't get an outspoken happy ending. And as the sap that I am, I had to write one. It won't make much sense without reading Master first, and either way, you should read it, because it's just so good and sexy and awesome and gorgeous and good at everything.

“Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t turn around, merely takes the violin out from under his chin. He doesn’t have to, John knows he’s listening. Back when they’d just moved in together and John didn’t know him that well, he’d say Sherlock’s name, and when Sherlock didn’t answer, John just turned and left. He assumed Sherlock didn’t care what he had to say, and even though Sherlock knew that John would probably just ask him something insignificant, like if he needed something from the store, he regretted it the second he heard the door closing behind him.  
  
Somehow, those seem like simpler times.  
  
“Sherlock, why am I just now hearing about your accident?”  
  
The frailty of the bow in his hand. His most important possession. It’d break so easily, just a squeeze of his fingers.  
  
“Sherlock, look at me. Right fucking now.”  
  
The curse word is like a pin sting against Sherlock’s skin, they fall from John’s mouth so rarely. He turns around, a reflexive reaction. He’s never been able to ignore John when he’s genuinely upset.  
  
“Who told you?”  
  
“Greg did,” John says, two big strides up to him. “I just went down to the station, to pick up the files on that murder you were so keen on. He happened to ask how you were doing since the _accident,_ slip of the tongue, I suppose. Since he also happened to mention that you asked him not to tell me.”  
  
 _Slip of the tongue._ Not likely. Sherlock tries to keep his expression neutral, feels his jaw clenching nonetheless.  
  
“That’s why you were gone those couple of weeks back, wasn’t it?” John goes on. “When you refused to see me, even without Mary?”  
  
Yes. That time. Sherlock barely remembers it, there was nothing to remember. One doesn’t remember constancy, a static of misery. Vomiting sea water, eyes running, pretending it was from the cold. Fairly sure he got pneumonia, but going to a doctor seemed pointless. It was his first near-death experience since he met John when he wasn’t around to patch him up, no other doctor would be able to help him.  
  
John’s voice is calm, with those hard edges Sherlock’s learned to hate. Face just as deliberately neutral as his own. John’s face is uniquely expressive, Sherlock can read every thought going through his head, except for when he’s angry. He hates it.  
  
“Yes.” Seems as good of an answer as any. John’s face gets even more stone-like, and he shakes his head.  
  
“For God’s sake, Sherlock…”  
  
John uses his name more often when he’s upset. Mental note. Sherlock feels scolded, in an almost childlike way. Wanting to stick up to him, but terrified of the consequences. John looks down. Keeps shaking his head.  
  
“Is this what I’ve got to pay?” John says finally. “You’re actually going to _punish_ me for finding someone?”  
  
 _I would never,_ Sherlock thinks, these ridiculous thoughts again. Sentimental and useless. _You’re happy, I can tell. She makes you so happy. Domesticity, breakfast ready in the morning. No heads in the fridge. You want this. I’d never take it from you._  
  
He doesn’t say any of this out loud. John takes his silence as lack of caring, shakes his head again.  
  
“There is no in between with you, is there?” he goes on. “If I don’t spend every waken second with you, you don’t want me around at all?”  
  
I want you around all the time. I can’t have that, so I take what I get. Excuse me for not being able to stand it when you go to her afterwards. Still no way to say it without giving it all away.  
  
“I…” John sighs. The anger is suddenly gone from his expression, it doesn’t make Sherlock feel the least bit better. “I understand, alright? You’re not used to having people this close, of course you’d get… attached. It’s… it’s normal.”  
  
 _Attached_. Even though Sherlock can think of twenty-four other words for what he feels for John, each of them closer, more emotional, deeper inside, rooting there, _attached_ hits him like a pole through the heart. Like when you kill a vampire.  
  
“But you’ve got to understand, I…” John sighs again, his head falling back. “I really… I have another person in my life now, Sherlock. It doesn’t mean that I… that you mean any less to me, you’re just going to have to… share me.”  
  
 _It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’d never ask you to give this up. You deserve better. You do._  
  
 _So please, give it up yourself. Don’t make me ask you._  
  
Sherlock keeps all these thoughts out of his expression. John tries to read him, eyes searching his face for something, not finding it.  
  
“No?”  
  
His face falls shut again. Sherlock wants to die. He has to say something now, or John will leave. And if he ever comes back, it won’t be the same.  
  
“You did leave me for her. You know you did.”  
  
John’s face. Still angry, but so taken aback that Sherlock can read him. Shock. Disbelief. He honestly didn’t think…  
  
Sherlock doesn’t want to finish that thought.  
  
“I didn’t…” John can’t seem to finish half of his sentences. It’s all a string of broken thoughts. “I… no. I didn’t. I didn’t leave you. I could never leave you, you know that. You’re the one that doesn’t want me around. And I thought… oh, god…”  
  
He sits down in his armchair. Sherlock doubts he even knew it was there, he just couldn’t stay on his feet. Realizes he’s still holding his violin, as if it’s what’s keeping him in this world.  
  
Silence falls like a heavy blanket over the apartment. It’s been that way damn near constantly since John left. Yet none of the days spent in what felt like crushing solitude is as depressing as this. As actually being with him, and feeling him moving further and further away.  
  
Like when you kill a vampire.  
  
Kill something that’s already dead.  
  
“I…” John looks up at him. Sherlock has to force himself to meet his gaze, like a raw wound, torn open and bleeding. Feels, for the first time ever, honestly afraid of him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I thought…”  
  
Sherlock feels the strings dig into his fingers as the hand on the neck of the violin turns into a fist. Shouldn’t hold it this way, doesn’t care. Breaks so easily.  
  
John can’t say what he thought. He doesn’t want to make this even harder. The revelation. This is when he understands.  
  
Sherlock didn’t think it’d happen this way. Thought it’d feel like a relief when it finally came out, this thing they’ve known all along. Not like this, a death sentence falling over the flat. This curse over what used to be their home.  
  
He’s not sure what he’s allowed to say. So he doesn’t say anything. John stays in his chair, staring at his hands. Sherlock has never seen him look so miserable, and is once again filled with an honest and sincere longing for death.  
  
“You can’t… block me out,” John finally says. Looks up, naked trust and childish hope. “You just can’t. You know that as well as I do. I don’t know what to do with… this right now, but you’re going to have to deal with me being around. That’s… just how it is, that’s how it’s going to be. Right?”  
  
He manages to sound convinced throughout the entire speech, faltering on that last word. Sherlock still doesn’t know what to say, so he decides to lie.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
When John leaves shortly after, he’s still not sure what the truth is.

 

When Sherlock was younger, he was afraid of dragons.  
  
All other big, deadly animals, he just found fascinating. Elephants, crocodiles, sharks. The simple anatomy of them, biology, he understood it. Mycroft told him about dragons at some point, he saw a picture of them in a book and he didn’t understand them. It was dangerous, just like the other animals, but not in a way he could understand.  
  
Sherlock spends the entire night googling pictures of dragons. Feels that childish fear building up. He’d hoped it would eventually take away the very mature fear, pressing up against his breastbone, about life being pointless rather than how easily it can be taken away.

 

 _Any cases?_ – JW  
  
 _None right now. You’ll know when there are._ – SH  
  
 _Will I_? – JW

 

Theoretically, Sherlock could have cameras set up in John’s and Mary’s apartment. He’s asked Mycroft for stranger things, and Sherlock’s not one to fool himself, he knows his brother knows exactly how he feels about John. He’s thought about it, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to stand it.  
  
Thinking about it is bad enough. He knows too much about human anatomy, John’s especially. Images vivid, it’s only taken a couple of hours of lurking his laptop to find out what John likes.  
  
He would be unpredictable, wouldn’t he. Mary probably still doesn’t know quite where he stands. At this point, he’s definitely snuck up behind her, planting tender little kisses and nips all over until she cracks, but also been quick and dirty, pinned her to the wall, her legs around his waist, fucking her through his zipper, teeth against her earlobe.  
  
Sherlock can blot these thoughts out most of the time. When he can’t, he refuses to masturbate. Probably as some kind of sign of protest.

 

John’s right, Sherlock doesn’t tell him about the next case. He goes alone, for the first time since that time that went so very wrong. One might think he’d learn from that, but why would he. There’s still some small, well hidden part of him that honestly thinks there’s a chance that John could love him, how on earth would he get used to the idea that John’s gone now, and with that, half of his mobility? It’s like going on a case with only his left hand, or suddenly gone deaf.  
  
He misses a henchman behind a door. The Yarders show up only a minute or so too late, but Lestrade still forces him off to a hospital. Sherlock sneaks out when the nurse leaves him to get a stretcher. When he’s back at Baker Street, he counts the minutes until John barges in. Tries to breathe through the sting in his side. Broken rib.  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock still doesn’t look at him. It’d give everything away.  
  
John saying his name.  
  
“You bloody idiot,” John goes on, walking up to where he’s lying on the sofa. “If I knew you could manage a case on your own, I’d leave you to it, but if you’re going to…”  
  
He cuts himself off abruptly. Sherlock glances at him. He looks strange from this angle.  
  
It’s another one of these moments. Sherlock sees the exact second it hits him. John’s smarter than he gives him credit for.  
  
For a minute, John just stands there. Then he exhales through his nose, that I’m-living-with-a-child sigh, before turning on his heel, going into the bathroom and returning with the well-used first aid kit in hand. Sherlock turns his gaze back to the ceiling, trying to feign nonchalance. Strange how everyone else buys whatever acts he puts on.  
  
“Sit up,” John says. “No, you know what, sod it. I’m getting you to bed.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
John doesn’t even pretend to hear him. Sherlock puts both feet on the floor, stands up, sways a little bit. John watches. Usually, he’d help Sherlock into the bedroom, but now, he almost seems to make a point out of keeping his hands on his hips. Sherlock tries not to put any thought into that. He’s already in pain.  
  
John goes into the bedroom, Sherlock follows. Steps feel a lot heavier than they should, everything floating about. That obnoxiously red shirt John’s wearing like a lighthouse, guiding. _Oh, who knew you’d be one for poetry, Sherlock._  
  
“Strip,” John says curtly once they’ve reached the bedroom, back demonstratively turned to Sherlock as he pretends to pick with the kit on the bed. Sherlock opens up his shirt, lets it hang loose around his torso, and then unbuttons his pants, stepping out of them. John’s always preferred him being half-naked when he examines him, he thinks Sherlock will cover up injuries if he’s not. But he’s never turned away like this before.  
  
John turns around and lifts up the blankets, Sherlock crawls beneath them without protest. It feels more comforting than he’d like it to. The light soft through the blinders, he left them down this morning because light doesn’t matter to him anymore. John turns on the bedside lamp and pushes the blankets to the other side of the bed, needs complete oversight. If he knew Sherlock was watching him, he wouldn’t look at him like that. Eyes caressing, licking every crevice into soft, aching pliancy. It’s not meant for Sherlock to see, so he pretends he doesn’t.  
  
Sherlock’s stayed in this apartment, this bedroom, for the entirety of their life together, and even when John left and all he could think of when he was here was all the things that used to be here and were now gone, it was the closest he felt to a home. But he knows that this, lying battered and bloody, cracked nose and a rib prickling a hole into his every breath, is the first time since John left that he’s actually wanted to _stay_ here, actually loved this the way you should love a home. John’s hands, on that perfect border between doctor professional and friendly affection, a miracle cure in themselves. Worth it, all the pain. All for this. Stay here.  
  
Sherlock really doesn’t understand how people put up with it. All these bloody sentiments.  
  
They’ve done this before, so many times. John in his doctor role, Sherlock in nothing but boxers and socks, shirt flimsy around his frame. Sherlock doesn’t reflect on it anymore, the way they move, coordinated. Without being asked, he arches his back off the bed ever so lightly when John feels down his sides. Can’t hold back a hiss of pain when he squeezes over the cracked one, and the guilt flashing over John’s face is bittersweet, intoxicating.  
  
“Sorry. Bloody hell, Sherlock…”  
  
John unrolls the gauze and starts to wrap it along his middle. Slow movements, palms flat down on the elastic to keep it from creasing. Sherlock feels the warmth of his skin through the fabric, fingertips over the edge of the gauze.  
  
They’ve done this before. But it wasn’t like this. John’s never cared about the closeness before, but now, he seems to want to keep the bodily contact to a minimum. His hands are lighter, not as doctorly secure as they usually are. Maybe things are different now, maybe, but Sherlock doesn’t care. John’s here, with him, _and you care, you worry about me, I matter, I still do. How much? Still enough for me to…_  
  
John’s averted gaze and flushed cheeks should be answer enough, but Sherlock doesn’t dare to believe it.  
  
John’s hands speed up as they move down his hip bones. He’s nervous, he wants this over with. Wants to go home to Mary, stay faithful, that life Sherlock could never give him. To him, there’s still a morality principle to mind, but his touches slow down again when they find the cut down Sherlock’s leg. Shallow, probably just from a nail in the floor when he was dragged across it, but John wouldn’t leave it, of course he wouldn’t. He sighs and tears open the pack of wet wipes from the kit.  
  
Sherlock stifles a groan when John starts cleaning his wound. Forces himself to keep his look of bitten-back agony, while in reality, the sting from the napkin just elevates the feeling of John’s hands on his skin, and he wants to purr in delight, writhe and wriggle beneath them, as completely unwound and submissive as he’s promised himself never to be. Hates himself, hates his body for not knowing the difference between concern and desire. Touch is still touch, warmth is warmth. He’s so cold.  
  
They’ve done this before. Him here, only a thin layer of cotton, John’s hands. It’s never been like this. He’s not sure what’s different this time. Other than the golden band on John’s finger.  
  
 _Could I, John? Would you hate me? Would I even care?_  
  
He could. John’s breaths, short, shallow. Hands still steady, but that’s just the force of habit, if he hadn’t been a doctor heart and soul, they would’ve been shaking as he puts the bandage on the wound. Sherlock could. He shouldn’t.  
  
He should want the best for John, his blogger, best friend, whatever he is. He’s cold. Every vessel in his blood seems heavy, glowing, rising sleepily up to the places where John touches him. His body doesn’t care. Treacherous thing.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock manages to pull himself out of the haze, his head throbbing. It takes him a moment to get John’s face in focus, and when he does, he barely recognizes it. He thought he’d seen every expression possible on his face, but no. John’s face is even more flushed, Sherlock can practically feel the heat radiating from his skin, eyes boring into his, as intense as when they’re fighting. Hand still on his thigh, grip tightening a shade. Tongue flickering behind his lips; Sherlock’s drowning again.  
  
At first he doesn’t understand why John’s looking at him like that, but then he feels the strain in his boxers, sensitive flesh scraping against cotton that do a very bad job at concealing his, very visibly erect, cock.  
  
Sherlock stares down at himself, his fear not quite strong enough to slake his lust. It’s not the first time he’s hard because of John, definitely not. Never felt less in control of it, though. Whatever he can think of while masturbating alone and miserable, falls short to this. Having it brought out by John, present, living flesh right next to him. Hand still on Sherlock’s thigh.  
  
Sherlock swallows. The usual chain of thought unravels; _shouldn’t, no use, he doesn’t love you, never will, you owe him, selfish prick,_ he knows how to handle it, usually. But it’s finally happened. How he waited and dreaded for the moment when he’d be so aroused that he wouldn’t find it in him to care at all, not even enough to be ashamed.  
  
Sherlock shifts a little on the bed. He's not sure how to handle this, but then again, he's never been one for social norms. So without reflecting much on it, he slides his hand down his stomach, doing his best not to look at John, and his breath hitches as he palms his crotch through the dampened fabric.  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
John probably meant for it to come out as some kind of warning, but he wants, he wants this. Sherlock hasn't dared to think it before. John hasn't laid awake nights thinking about it like he has, but having it like this, Sherlock all laid out and willing, he won't be able to pass out on.

Sherlock hopes to god he won't.  
  
He impatiently wriggles his hands into his pants, not exactly in the mood for foreplay, and dares to shoot a glance at John. He's turned his face away, like he's trying to add some decency to the situation, but his eyes have wandered over to Sherlock's cock, now struggled past the waistline of his pants, the elastic pressing it tight up against his stomach. He licks his lips; Sherlock almost loses it. Finally manages to get a good grip on himself, stroking his glands clumsily. John’s thumb starts to make small, subconscious circles on his skin.  
  
"Come here," Sherlock finally mumbles, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth as he circles the head, slick thumb.  
  
John swallows, his cheeks flushed, the bulge in his own jeans, god, Sherlock needs more, and luckily, John has never been able to ignore a direct order. He kneels on the bed, slowly moving up Sherlock's body, a little awkward and horribly careful, like he might break something, even though everything they could possibly ruin with this is ruined already. His knee sandwiched between Sherlock's thighs, too close and not enough at the same time, and eventually, they're face to face, John's one hand hesitating on Sherlock's chest, the other one buried in the pillows.  
  
John looks like he might say something, and Sherlock doesn't want him to. He's waited for this for too long, building up for as long as he can remember, and when he feels John's erection press into his hip, he snaps. Grabs John by the back of his neck, pulls him down, and finally, a kiss. Burns through Sherlock’s busted nose.  
  
Lips meet in a toothy clash, uncoordinated, they’ll get the hang of it. John tasted the way he always imagined, clean and milky and warm, tongue rough, not rough enough to dominate, just enough to put up a delicious struggle.  
  
Sherlock easily flips them over, even though being on the bottom felt oddly comforting. His injuries twinge in protest, John loose and compliant, Sherlock is too eager. He would’ve stripped him deeper than skin, turned him inside out, hard and begging. As it is, he doesn’t even have the patience to take any clothes off, just pushes his hands up John’s shirt, the groan he feels against his lips is the most arousing thing he’s ever experienced. Would’ve drunken in the sight of John’s cock before taking in every inch he could fit in his mouth, but John’s starting to lose it, too, it’s all hard pushes of his hips and fingers digging marks into Sherlock’s shoulders.  
  
“Sherlock,” he breathes, no proper kissing, just sloppy gliding of lips across his face. “Sherl-“  
  
John uses his name more often when he’s about to come. Another mental note. Then a guttural cry, John grimaces, just the sight of it is enough to make Sherlock bite his lip and comes silently, just a loud exhale through his nose as his head falls against John’s shoulder. He’s fairly sure the entire process has taken less than three minutes.  
  
He doesn’t move. John doesn’t seem to want him to, just lies there, eyes still closed. Sherlock’s afraid of what’ll happen when he opens them. Even the few times he’s done this before, he remembers were followed by an emptiness, and none of them were as important as this one, and thusly, the consequences not as grave. The excuses, the explanations. John’s fear, every bit as devastating as his own.  
  
It was over too quickly. That’s all he can think.  
  
Something building up this long, over in less than three minutes. And still managing to ruin everything.  
  
The most important thing in his life is not important enough to be destroyed by premature ejaculation.  
  
Sherlock gets off, but doesn’t stand up. John doesn’t, either. A good sign? Possibly. Doesn’t explain the shiver running through him.  
  
Finally, John turns to him. Sherlock pretends not to notice.  
  
“Alright?”  
  
He’s not sure what that means. So Sherlock nods. John nods, too, moves closer after a brief hesitation.  
  
“Have a sleep now, Sherlock,” he says softly and pulls the blankets up over him, seemingly discarded over the mess covering Sherlock’s lower abdomen. Sherlock wants to protest, wants to say he’s fine, he’ll get up, a new case, anything, needs distraction, before he feels just how tired he is, how cold. Warmth is warmth. John is warmth. Don’t leave.  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes. He wishes he could pretend to sleep, just to see if John stays, but he drifts off with him still next to him. When he wakes up, it’s dark outside, John is gone, but Sherlock hears him clattering with something in the kitchen. Wonders if John stayed next to him in bed. If he watched him, like people do in stupid movies.

 

To John, there is no such thing as one night stands. Sherlock’s known it was going to get him hurt someday, with his compulsive need to make a move on every woman he sees. He thinks he does it for the kick, that he could settle for meeting a woman in a club, shag her in the bathroom stall and leave it at that, but he puts his heart on the line every time. To John, every woman is a potential life partner.  
  
He reads so much into things. In that way, he’s almost more observant than Sherlock is. If John gets a smile from a woman at the grocery store, he’ll go back home and think about how their life could’ve been together. He’d see that smile as a sign that she’s open, generous. That she doesn’t mind spending the night in wearing sweats and eating takeout, but when she does go out, she’ll dance and mingle like her life depended on it. And she’d want to have children.  
  
John reads all that into a smile. And when he does have sex, even though it happened less frequently the more time he and Sherlock spent together, he doesn’t mind letting her go the next day without getting her number. He doesn’t think he does, but he thinks about her, months afterwards. He wonders how it could’ve been. Spending that eternity he planned out for them together.  
  
When John leaves the next morning, Sherlock doesn’t ask him what they’re going to do about this. He knows that question has started a snowballing effect in John’s mind without even being asked. He doesn’t want to make it worse.  
  
But he does lean in and give John a hug. 

 

 _I talked to Mary._ – JW  
  
 _And?_ – SH  
  
 _She understands. But she’s not happy._ – JW  
  
 _What about you?_ – SH  
  
Sherlock has to wait almost an hour for a reply.  
  
 _You couldn’t have figured all this out earlier, before things got so bloody complicated?_ – JW  
  
Sherlock falls asleep trying to figure out what to text back.

 

Mary shows up at Sherlock’s doorstep a couple of days later. At that point, Sherlock hasn’t heard from John in four days. Texted him a few times in an attempt to make things better, make it normal, without getting an answer. And presumably, John spent that time trying to make things right with Mary. Trying to explain. Explain himself to _her,_ not to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock would feel abandoned. Cast off, as usual. But now, Mary’s here. She wouldn’t be here if he weren’t a threat.  
  
She’s upset. Hair a disaster, old makeup smeared under her eyes. She’s too polite to storm past him into the flat, so he invites her in. She sits down in John’s armchair. _(It’s not his, he doesn’t live here anymore.)_  
  
Sherlock doesn’t sit down in his own chair. He’s not going to sit opposite anyone but John in that thing, it feels important somehow. There’s no use for him to start this, she’s the one who has something to say. So they’re quiet for a while.  
  
“Sherlock,” Mary says, finally. “You can’t do this. You can’t do this to him.”  
  
Sherlock had twelve plausible ways for her to start this in mind. This wasn’t one of them.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You can’t,” she goes on. She doesn’t look at him, like she’s afraid she won’t get this out if she does. “You care about him, you… you love him, I know you do. Why would you do this? Telling him you _love_ him, and… sleeping with him, you’re just… you’re confusing him! Can’t you see?”  
  
She managed to keep a collected act on for about two minutes. Sherlock smiles to himself. Still can’t fully blot out the cold, prickling fear.  
  
“I believe John’s perfectly capable of making his own decisions in that matter, Mary.”  
  
She gives him a venomous glance. He’s never seen her angry before. Didn’t think her capable.  
  
“You’re being selfish.”  
  
“So are you.”  
  
“Can’t you let him be happy?”  
  
“I want nothing more. Would that be all?”  
  
Everything he says is true. But so is everything she says. Sherlock hopes he comes off as confident in his victory, because he surely doesn’t feel like it.

 

 _Mary dropped by today. Lovely chat._ – SH  
  
 _What? What the hell did she want?_ – JW  
  
 _Am I confusing you? Have I made you miserable somehow?_ – SH  
  
 _No, and well. I’m not sure._ – JW  
  
 _What does that mean?_ – SH  
  
 _It’s hard for me to be happy when you’re not._ – JW  
  
Sherlock is still fidgeting with his phone trying to think of an answer when it buzzes again.  
  
 _Sherlock. Can’t we talk about this in person? Can I come over?_ – JW  
  
Sherlock stares at his phone for a while. Then he puts it down. When it buzzes again an hour later, he doesn’t look at it.  
  
He’s hurt. He pretends not to have that ability sometimes, but he does. He’s hurt, confused, angry, and for the first time in a very long time, he can honestly say he doesn’t want to see John. Even though he didn’t even know Mary had come here, and even though half of the things she said could’ve easily just been the way she _wanted_ John to feel, rather than what he actually felt, Sherlock doesn’t want to see John. Because there is that tiny, almost insignificantly small possibility that he’d repeat everything she said, and if he would, Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it.  
  
He goes into the bedroom. Pretends to still see the outline of John’s body on the sheets, the places his feet dug into the mattress as he came. Takes those images with him, buried underneath the blankets.

 

 _Fine. Ignore me. I’m coming over tonight whether you like it or not._ – JW  
  
 _I talked to Greg and checked out your website, so don’t bother pretending you have a case._ – JW  
  
 _You’re an annoying twat._ – JW  
  
 _Answer, damnit. I know you’ll read this._ – JW  
  
 _You said you’d come over anyway._ – SH  
  
 _Not the point._ – JW

 

John does come over. Sherlock would like to stoically stand by the window, turned away from the door, but truth is, by the time John walks in, he’s been pacing around for an hour, trying to play the violin, failing miserably, fidgeting with his microscope. The need for a distraction even stronger now than usual, now that it’s not the boredom he needs distraction from. The boredom, he can live with. Monotony is fine. It doesn’t burn.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
The way he says his name. Sherlock closes his eyes briefly. No use answering.  
  
John closes the door behind him, sits down in his chair. Sherlock’s afraid to say something. John puts his head in his hand, rubs his hairline tiredly. When he opened the door, he looked like he had a plan. Somehow, it feels important that he does, that _he_ knows where they’re going with this.  
  
John looks up. He’s tired. Many nights of arguing, sleeping on the couch. Sherlock finds it hard to sympathize.  
  
“What exactly did Mary tell you?” John finally says. Sherlock sighs.  
  
“She said I couldn’t do this to you. That I’m confusing you and I should let you be happy. Then she sat there looking hysterical for a bit, and then she left.”  
  
John looks down. Quiet again.  
  
“It’s just…” John begins, lets the sentence subdue in a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me? I need to know. What did you think…”  
  
He trails off. Sherlock’s glad he does. He’d probably punch him in the face if he kept talking.  
  
 _What did you think would happen?_ That’s the question, isn’t it. He’d like an answer to that from John, too.  
  
What would happen? Sherlock would stammer it out, lose his articulation for the first time since he was thirteen, angry and awkward. He’d keep his eyes on the floor, like he does now. He’d say it, and probably storm out the apartment before John managed to answer. Or huddle down on the floor, crawl up to him, put his head in his lap. Beg. Like a dog.  
  
And John? What would he say?  
  
 _I’m not gay, we’re not a couple, I’m not his date._ Sherlock wants to smack those memories out of his skull.  
  
He’s still not entirely sure how John feels about this. But he knows that what he feels isn’t simple and uncomplicated enough for them to fall into each other’s arms and make sweet love on a bed of roses. If he told John about this before he got married, John would probably blush, open and close his mouth a few times, look away, and Sherlock would be left with nothing but the empty satisfaction of knowing that John thought about him when he masturbated in the shower later.

He wishes their relationship could be normal. He’s never wished that for anything before.  
  
Sherlock looks up. John’s eyes still on him, open and trusting. Afraid all at once.  
  
“You left me for her,” Sherlock settles for saying. “It wouldn’t have been different. If I told you earlier, you would’ve been with me until you got tired of it.”  
  
John stares at him, his expression unchanged. Sherlock almost starts to wonder if he heard him, until he sees the tiny shake of his head.  
  
“How can you think that?” The hurt in his voice. Sherlock wants to smack this out of his head, too. Smack it so hard that maybe his brain would fall out, splatter out on the carpet beneath them. Mrs. Hudson would complain about it.  
  
 _You could’ve had me whenever you wanted. I was here, I was always here, if you wanted to, you could’ve. But you didn’t want to._  
  
“There must’ve been some reason it took you getting married until you realized your undying love for me,” he settles for saying. Doesn’t realize until he sees the look on John’s face, that these word make the exact opposite intent of what he thought. John’s open, childishly pliant eyes narrow to slits.  
  
“Same goes for you, in case you didn’t notice,” he bites back. “I didn’t see you bringing me roses until Mary came along. With you walking around like some bloody ice man all the time, how was I supposed to know that you…”  
  
He quiets down abruptly. Sherlock doesn’t answer, because it’s the first time they’ve ever argued and he doesn’t have every one of John’s possible answers mapped out in his head.  
  
“I didn’t know,” John goes on, calmer now. “I had no idea. What I did know is that if I told you that I… loved you, and you wouldn’t have felt the same way, it wouldn’t stand it. It would’ve ruined everything, so I figured it’d be better to keep my mouth shut. And then Mary came along, and I… can you really blame me?”  
  
Sherlock barely hears anything that he says, even though it’s everything he’s waited to hear, throughout the whole past year. He gets stuck on that word. _Loved._  
  
He hasn’t even dared to think it. It’s been present, he’s known it on some level, but on almost all significant levels, been terrified to even think it. Somehow, he’s furious at John for not telling him this sooner, but then he hears the rest of what John says, and understands.  
  
It’s just as delicious as when all pieces fall together in a case, and somehow even better. He didn’t know there was a greater satisfaction, other than cocaine.  
  
In his head, he’s told John he loves him a thousand times. In his head, he’s had his way with him, worshipped him, every bit as openly as he’ll never dare to do in reality. And he’s been so angry at John for not seeing all the things he does in his head, he hasn’t thought for a second that John might’ve thought all the same things. Dancing around each other all this time, living on top of each other, resenting one another for not being mind readers. So stupid.  
  
They’ve been quiet for too long, John’s starting to look defeated again. Sherlock stands up, realizing somehow that if he doesn’t do this now, he’ll never get the chance again. John looks up at him, scared, he’s afraid he’s going to go. Sherlock walks over to him, leans down and kisses him as an answer.  
  
John melting under his hands. Too long. So stupid. All the time they lost.  
  
When they break apart, John keeps his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Like he’s still afraid of losing him. Sherlock looks into his eyes. No. Never again.  
  
“Stay,” he says quietly.  
  
“If you want me to,” John answers.  
  
Sherlock kisses him again.

 

It’s like taking off your shoes after walking around with a chafed foot for a year.  
  
Sherlock notices that he’s been systematically mutilating himself into living in solitude. Still pours tea into only one cup, even though it took him three months to learn to do that. His things are on both shelves of the bathroom cabinet. After the first couple of weeks of living alone, he placed his razors and shaving foam on the upper shelf just to make it seem less depressingly empty.  
  
He still stretches himself over the entire sofa. But when he does, John simply lifts his legs, slides beneath them, and they continue watching telly, John’s hand casually resting on his knee. Sherlock sometimes wonders if John’s really as calm about the physical connection as he appears to while Sherlock feels like such a simple touch could make him explode with desire, and sometimes, John’s hand travels up, Sherlock dressing gown comes loose easily, and it becomes clear that no, this has the exact same effect on him.  
  
Sometimes, Sherlock still wonders if John’s glad he found him. Sometimes he looks himself in the mirror and sees himself as the cold, unyielding thunderstorm, inevitable disaster, and thinks of John, such a romantic, heart on his sleeve, even easier to break than his bow, and even more precious.  
  
Those times, he crawls back into bed, feels John’s arms around his waist and his cheek against his upper back, and stops thinking about it for now.


End file.
